


Composition of Maps

by sunspeared



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bicep Ogling, Denerim, Epistolary, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-26 13:46:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6241684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunspeared/pseuds/sunspeared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is Ambassador Josephine Montilyet. She is the very last person in Thedas who needs someone to talk to. That is the entire point of her, so far as Cassandra can tell: to <i>talk. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Composition of Maps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skybone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skybone/gifts).



> Sometimes, you want to write a big dramatic epic with lots of angst. Sometimes, you want to write some fluffy get-together Pentilyet. This is decidedly the latter. Happy Wintersend! Hope you like it.

Josephine's letters creep up on Cassandra.

A brief message here, asking for her opinion of some distantly-related Pentaghast cousin (no, Cassandra has never met the woman personally, but she has an acquaintance who has).

_Seeker Pentaghast, I hope this finds you well; Commander Cullen says you've been a terror to the recruits, lately. No such news would otherwise reach me in my office. I may as well be sequestered in Leliana's tower._

A short thank-you note there, to express gratitude for Cassandra's looming threateningly over her shoulder at an over-friendly Orlesian grain merchant (it was nothing; the man was asking for far worse than a disapproving frown).

_Seeker Pentaghast, Can you see the rainclouds on the horizon? One of Sister Leliana's birds came barreling into my office, soaking wet, and began preening itself while it dripped on my desk. As pranks go, I like it far better than having my underthings pinned to the Chantry board. Still--the next time you see her, do give her one of your particularly smouldering glares, on my behalf?_

Small things. Of all the leaders of the Inquisition, Josephine is the most singular in her operations; Cassandra can go for a full week without knowing she exists, but for the endless stream of visiting nobles and merchants entering and leaving her office.

_Seeker Pentaghast, Your response was so swift, I fear our messengers and my aides may have a relay set up between my office and the valley._

She finds herself agonizing over every second word-she has never been eloquent, and Josephine's letters are so charming, so effortless, and--

 _Seeker Pentaghast, I saved your note for the end of a_ very trying _day. Adaar kept us in the war room for hours, combing over every detail of every case we wish to bring before her for public judgment--none of us know as much as she would like us to about legal minutiae. Her own knowledge is encyclopedic, for all that she'd like our allies to think her an affable, but dim, sword (or bow, as it were) for hire. But Cullen and Leliana have spent the the whole of their careers operating outside of, or above, the Laws of Nations, and if I'm anything to the Inquisition, I am a financier, not a solicitor. And I say: we_ are _the law, but who ever listened to a diplomat?_

No. This is ridiculous. They live in the same keep.

In the third month of their exchange, she rehearses these three sentences in her head all the way to Josephine's office.

"This is ridiculous," Cassandra says, setting her response to this latest letter down on Josephine's desk. "We live in the same keep. It's a _five minute_ walk to the armory, if that. If you have something to say, you can say it."

Josephine raises one elegant eyebrow. She examines the envelope, which Cassandra has not bothered to seal. She pulls out the letter, which is two pages long, front and back. Usually, the ambassador's office is bustling with, her staff, her aides, Cullen and Leliana's aides come to argue with her aides, her small fleet of secretaries, but today it is empty.

"I see," she says.

"I could not leave you without a reply," Cassandra hastens to explain. The ink is barely dry. Surely, Josephine can see this. A dashed-off response is nearly as bad as no response at all. Surely.

"Seeker," Josephine replies, then pauses, steeples her fingers on her desk. "I have been in need of someone to talk to."

This is Ambassador Josephine Montilyet. She is the very last person in Thedas who needs _someone to talk to_. That is the entire point of her, so far as Cassandra can tell: to _talk_.

"You're always... true," Josephine continues, in the face of Cassandra's silence. "I encounter that so rarely. Do you know, you've never complimented me?"

 _I think your hair might be beautiful, if you ever let it down_. Too close to an insult. _Your eyes are very grey. Like the moon._ Terrible. "I have no talent for it," Cassandra says.

"I spend all day being flattered by people who want something from me. You want nothing." She folds Cassandra's letter crisply, and holds it out to her. "But you may have this back, if we no longer have a use for it."

From anyone but Josephine, it might have sounded--pointed. Josephine is never pointed. It would be a dire mistake to think her soft. No. She looks wounded, and Cassandra knows, with as much certainty as she has ever known anything in her life, that she cannot let her down.

"What you are saying is--that you need a friend," Cassandra says, despite this. "One with no interest in politics, or intrigues, to whom you can express your opinions without fear of their being used against you. And Leliana does not have my mail read, where she has everyone else's."

By that standard, anyone with similar qualifications might do.

Cassandra should not be surprised that she's been vetted for suitability. She appreciates meticulousness. It is a well-known fact, that Ambassador Montilyet's days are scheduled down to the minute, and Maker pity the poor attache who receives a gentle rebuke for throwing her so much as thirty seconds off her planned course.

"There is that," Josephine says. "I'm also fond of _you_ , Seeker Pentaghast. We've hardly exchanged a dozen words--in person--since finding Skyhold."

They had passed time together after Haven. They had--the _four_ of them had had arguments by the dozen, in between the searches for survivors. Whether they should move on. The likelihood of the Herald's still being alive. How to apportion their remaining food. Josephine had clung like a limpet to Leliana's side, and to Cullen's, when Leliana was scouting; Cassandra had been her last choice. Or so she had thought.

"In that case," Cassandra says, and clears her throat. She has never been pursued in this way. "Send your response to the forward camp in the Fallow Mire. Adaar is headed there next. Unfinished business."

*****

She brings along a twine-bound packet of Josephine's letters at the bottom of her bag, when she leaves.

The Fallow Mire. Some unfinished business, with the undead. Vivienne spends the better part of their days putting them to rest; Cassandra and Bull are there as a surety. Cassandra cannot complain. She would not complain if Adaar dragged her to the ends of Thedas. There is no shortage of disgruntled Avaar, let alone bears, to test her mettle.

Every fight lets her forget, for a moment, what she has lost.

The sickly green glow in the sky, after the explosion at the Conclave. She remembers now: there had not been time to get civilians back to Haven, which, for all they knew, was similarly beseiged. The first wave of demons from the Breach had hit the forward camp with ten, fifteen minutes' warning. Leliana had been halfway up the mountain, scouting what was left of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, as though there was any hope of survivors, as though she might find Justinia, whole and hale, in the rubble, demanding to know when her laundering will be done in this backwater--and Cullen, at the head of the soldiers; it had been Cassandra who'd seized Josephine by the shoulder and tossed her to the ground like a ragdoll.

 _Stay down,_ Cassandra had shouted. The first two words they'd exchanged.

"Hey, Seeker," an exhausted Scout Harding says, at their current camp. "Letter for you? I think. The handwriting's too fancy to read."

Vivienne and Bull are constructing a rudimentary bath. The Inquisitor, who can sleep anywhere, is has already sat down against a tree and closed her eyes. Cassandra is covered in her mud up to her waist; she nods to Harding, and resists the urge to tear it open then and there. Her gloves are filthy. The paper has managed to make it to her pristine, but for Cassandra's own thumbprint on the envelope.

_Seeker Pentaghast, In response to your question: the Montilyets have a modest fleet of our own, and very modest holdings (mortgaged to the hilt), but our source of fame has always been our nautical charts. If I weren't the eldest, and if so much coin had not been poured into molding me into my family's last bright hope, our one chance at restoring our former glory, I should have liked to be one of our cartographers. The composition of maps--the ordering of the world. I've crewed my family's ships, to learn our trade from the bottom; I enjoy sailing. I can't imagine what I would do if Raiders attacked. In another world, I would still be worthless with a blade._

At the forward camp, Josephine had looked up at her, wild-eyed, once the fighting was finished. Cassandra had offered a hand; Josephine had pushed herself, wordlessly, to her feet. She had nodded, and looked around at the dead soldiers, the slain demons. Her white, white teeth sank into her lower lip, worrying at the flesh there.

 _As it is, I'll have to content myself with organizing expeditions. Perhaps when I command all of our resources, and have restored our rights to trade in Orlais, I'll find a ship and a crew willing to sail to the edge of the known world for me. Someone_ must _wonder as I wonder._

_But do you ever wonder what you might have been, if you hadn't joined the Seekers? Leliana has told me you were given over to them when you were only six. If I've overstepped my bounds--the world knows your story, or at least the most pleasing, heroic version of it--please, do tell me. I imagine you'll say you'd be married off and producing the next generation of Pentaghasts, as though the world needs more Pentaghasts to keep track of. I must confess, the thought of you moldering away in the countryside is more than I can bear._

And once she had looked her fill, Josephine had said, _I thank you, Lady Seeker, for your gracious welcome to the Inquisition_.

Here and now, in a stinking swamp, Cassandra folds up Josephine's letter. She tucks it into her pack with the rest. After all of this, after weathering the worst of being a powerful foreigner in Orlais, Josephine still dreams.

 _Do you ever wonder what you might have been, if you hadn't joined the Seekers?_ Cassandra does not. The question hardly bears consideration. She will talk about it with Josephine when next she returns to Skyhold, if Josephine is so curious.

*****

When they return to Skyhold, Josephine has already been gone for three days.

There are certain functions which the ambassador must attend in person, and cannot foist off on an attache. The inner circle takes turns accompanying her--for her personal protection, and for a chance to mingle in better society than they might find at Skyhold. They draw straws for the opportunity, so far as Cassandra can tell. Sera always throws her lot in ('for the _cheeses,_ yeah? _'_ ); Leliana fixes the game, when this happens, to prevent an international incident.

Cassandra, whose days at Skyhold are full of teaching awed farmgirls to hold their shields up, has never felt the urge to try her chances, until now.

And still the letters come like clockwork, as Josephine travels across Orlais, from party to ball.

She writes, on the matter of Dorian: _Lord Dorian is accustomed to playing the frivolous wastrel, and certainly I can identify the most pompous Nevarrans in the room by their fuming when I walk in with a Tevinter. It helps me to avoid them. Unfortunately, he must have his uniform altered anew before_ every _party. I've no desire to listen to his and Lady Vivienne's sniping over the use of their tailor._

On Vivienne: _I know she was playing the Grand Game when I was still in leading-strings. I_ do _know. I have the utmost respect for her. She was a great help to me, when I first became ambassador to Orlais, and her touch is heavy these days: a queen, where a bishop might do just as well. Still. There is nothing quite like watching a room quake in its collective boots when she enters at my side. Chess metaphors are so_ tedious _, Seeker. I'll have the Inquisitor decree a week's moratorium on them, when I return._

On Cullen: _A competent dancer, to be sure. I taught him myself. I believe he considers intercepting my undesirable partners some form of religious penance--tell me, is there anything in the Chant about having one's toes stepped on?--and in this way, he makes himself useful. Otherwise, he is purely decorative, except to dangle in front of flighty Orlesians as a marriage prospect. Leliana would approve of their enthusiasm, even if Cullen doesn't._

On Leliana: _Our very dearest mutual friend could not make a misstep if she tried. Did you ever grow tired of her perfection, when you attended functions with her? I wish, just once, that she would stumble in the middle of a charming joke, or miss a leap in the tourdion. And yet! There is no one I would rather have with me._

Cassandra collects these little impressions, until duty next brings them together. She keeps them like gems in her pocket. She finds herself smiling at inappropriate moments, over some little pun--there is nothing more vile than _puns_ \--or a new, absurd flourish in Josephine's signature.

At the very least--at the _very_ least, Varric has not noticed anything. Cole has not made bad verse (which he does not even have the good taste to rhyme) of her innermost thoughts. Bull has made only one passing remark about how buoyant she seems, and Leliana has not thrown a black bag over her head, locked her in a small room, and, lit by only one candle, questioned her about her intentions toward Josephine. Cassandra has no intentions. This is a polite correspondence between two unlikely friends.

 _Perhaps you might join me on my next trip, Seeker,_ Josephine writes, after the very last party. _If only to give me the pleasure of a mere mortal's company. Queen Anora has invited the Inquisition to Denerim, for a reception to honor us for foiling the plot on her life. We've left the Inquisitor in Orlais, 'ass deep in demons,' as the Bull might, and she cannot attend in person; and I cannot foist this off on one of my people. It must be me, or no one._

Cassandra's heart leaps, for all that she despises parties _,_ sycophants, anecdotes, condolences on Most Holy's most tragic passing, and, above all, hors d'oeuvres.

 _Here is the secret,_ Josephine writes. _The draw is always rigged. I choose who accompanies me. Do you think I would leave something so important to chance? Do you think I leave_ anything _to chance, if it can at all be helped?_

*****

When Josephine returns to Skyhold, she finds Cassandra and Leliana in the Undercroft.

Dagna is halfway down the mountain with only Sera for a guard (this strikes Cassandra as unwise--the thought that Arcanist Dagna needs a guard, and the thought that Sera might be suitable for the task), investigating some cave or another; in her absence, Cassandra is using her forge. A trivial hobby she took up, after asking Dagna to teach her. She looks with longing upon the metal flowers Dagna makes, and insists instead on learning to make daggers--practical things.

"Please, never take up making horseshoes," Leliana is saying, before Josephine enters. "Do you remember the singing sword? She may accidentally give you _that_ material. Think of the poor animals, if nothing else."

Before Cassandra can tell Leliana, in no uncertain terms, what she can do with the horses she's so concerned about, Leliana falls silent, staring at a point just past Cassandra's shoulder. There is no one else on the Maker's earth who can make Leliana smile so widely. Cassandra only barely manages to dodge, as Josephine flies into Leliana's embrace.

Josephine has not even bothered to change out of her traveling cloak. It flares out when Leliana swings her around. Cassandra knew _of_ Josephine before she joined the Inquisition; she knew, for example, that Leliana always made a point of visiting her in Val Royeaux, and that she always returned from those visits lighter in her soul. That Ambassador Montilyet's most dangerous enemies were, through many proxies, dissuaded from carrying out their plans against her.

 _You put so much effort into one little Antivan_ , Cassandra had scoffed, one night.

 _Ah, but she's worth it. If you cared to know her, you'd understand why,_ Leliana had replied, and then slapped the side of the trunk they'd bundled some enemy of the Divine or another into. _Stop screaming, for Andraste's sake. No one can hear you but us, and we're trying to have a conversation._

"Seeker," Josephine says, once Leliana relinqushes her. Leliana is monstrously tall, next to her, and attempts rest an elbow atop her head, only to be swatted away. "Have I found you at a bad time?"

"No," says Cassandra. She is sweaty, soot-smudged, in no fit state to be seen by, let alone speak, to Josephine. Her shirt does not even have _sleeves_. Josephine's gaze travels the length of her, lingering on her fresh burns.

"I leave for Denerim in four days," Josephine says. "If you'd like to accompany me."

" _Yes_ ," Cassandra says.

Reduced to monosyllables. Ridiculous. Josephine is dusty and dissheveled, too. Her hair is pulled into a tight knot at the base of her neck, and it looks ready to slip free of its tie at the slightest provocation. Under her cloak, she carries a shortsword that Cullen must have pressed on her, before she left, and she accepted, so he would shut up; Leliana would have known better. And now Leliana takes it from her, without a word.

Leliana clears her throat. "You'll need a dress uniform, of course," she says, with a sympathetic glance to Cassandra. Whether it is for the uniform, or whatever she is reading into Cassandra's reaction to Josephine, Cassandra cannot be sure.

Adaar designed the uniform herself. It _is_ ridiculous, but Josephine and Cullen like it well enough, and Cassandra does not care what she wears, so long as it is clean and presentable, and she can move freely. If she can wear a breastplate over it, so much the better.

Cassandra is not in the habit of thinking ill of the dead, let alone Andraste's own representative on earth, a good woman, a great leader, cut down well before her time--but Most Holy's sense of theater had been incredibly _Orlesian_. Cassandra and Leliana were so rarely in Val Royeaux on her business, and even more rarely in Val Royeaux at the same time, that Justinia had enjoyed dressing Cassandra in white, and Leliana in black, and making her appearances with them at her right and left sides.

Being fitted for the screaming red uniform is a relief, then. She will be herself in it, not a symbol of someone else's power. Who _would_ she have been, if not Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, Hero of Orlais, Right Hand of the Divine? It's still a frivolous question.

Josephine Montilyet, mapmaker. Josephine, in the salt air, clutching a pencil between her teeth as she takes depth soundings--Cassandra has been reading their books on cartography. Josephine, in trousers and a white shirt, her hair unbound and blowing in the wind, standing at the bow of some ship, pointing out the constellations to her. The thought makes the endless pinpricks bearable.

"I didn't know you...." Josephine mimes bringing a hammer down on an anvil. Cassandra is not entirely sure why Josephine needs to be present for the fitting, but she has no objections. "Dagna is teaching you?"

"I needed something to do with my hands--something challenging," Cassandra says, raising her arms so that the tailor can measure her bust. "All of my sparring partners need a rest, and after a certain point, trouncing recruits becomes dull."

What, then, does Josephine do to relax? In all their correspondence, Cassandra has never thought to ask. She would not even know where to begin. She stands, tongue-tied, as the tailor bustles in circles around her.

"We'll leave off the gloves," Josephine instructs the tailor, from her stool in the corner of the room. "Leliana likes them, but they make me feel like a gardener. You're welcome to let her know I said so."

"There is something more to this visit to Denerim," Cassandra says. "If it were only a reception, you could find some way to foist it off."

Josephine takes the blue sash from the tailor, dismisses the woman, and personally shows Cassandra how it's tied around the waist. She cannot imagine how to bridge the gap between the graceful, poised Josephine she knows on paper, and the one beaming up at her, swiveling her around to look at their reflections in the mirror.

"Wonderful," says Josephine, patting at Cassandra's shoulder and guiding her to sit on Josephine's stool. It makes Cassandra shorter, if only by a few inches. Now," she goes on, "it is all well and good, for the Inquisitor to seize a fortress in the middle of nowhere. I believe you were there."

Crestwood. More undead, put to rest. "We liberated it," Cassandra replies. Vivienne, Adaar, Sera. A satisfying fight, all told. She'd put it from her mind, until now; readying it for occupation, should the worst happen to Skyhold, is Leliana and Cullen's problem. "It was overrun by bandits."

"As you say." Josephine's hands are empty. In all the brief span they've known one another, and the briefer amount of time they've spent in one another's presence, Cassandra has never seen her without something to fidget with. "Ownership of the land reverts to the crown after a certain number of years, but there are... rival claims. Two local banns also have a stake in the land--"

"After we did all the dirty work."

"As you say."

There is a fixedness to Josephine's smile that suggests, in no uncertain terms, that Cassandra should stop talking over her. "The ceremony," Cassandra prompts.

"We have Queen Anora's gratitude for foiling the attempt on her life, but not her favor--not since Redcliffe. We need it, and we need this Caer Bronach. And we need Fereldan grain, for which we're being charged obscene prices. _And_ we need the Fereldan Chantry's blessing, as though guarding their sisters in the Hinterlands isn't enough."

It strikes Cassandra that Josephine has been spending time in the sun--the road. It would do that. Her face and hands, at least, are darker than they were when Cassandra last saw them. Her imaginings go no farther than Josephine's high collar and the ends of her sleeves. "The Chantry?" she asks. Grand Cleric Elemena is old, but has her wits about her, for all that she is deafer than a post.

Beatrix had not gone into her old age so gracefully.

"No matter," Josephine says. "Leliana is intriguing her way into their good graces as we speak. I'd hoped that the Grand Cleric would meet with me, but her Revered Mother will not so much as return my messages."

Uncharacteristically naive of Josephine, to assume that an Orlesian might be able to move a group of Fereldan clerics. No one, Cassandra supposes, is perfect. It is not hers to point out the mistake. "Why do you need me?"

"Well," Josephine says, and now she is smiling in earnest. "Fereldans hate Orlesians and Tevinters. They have no use for Free Marchers, and never think on the Rivaini--but Antiva holds a particular fascination for them. We've both suffered Blights, and we both take a particular satisfaction in spiting Orlais. And there's our brandy, of course; they import it by the shipful. And we breed a certain sort of miniature dog they particularly like, a sort of cross between a mabari and a--"

"And Nevarra?"

"The accent."

"What of it?"

"It is considered... attractive."

"I suppose," Cassandra says, "that it is too late to back out."

"Entirely too late," Josephine says. "You're trapped, I'm afraid. It's just as well--Adaar has seen the wisdom of taking the Bull with her into the field. Leliana has no operations that require your expertise, and Cullen has been needing to test some of his junior lieutenants as instructors for our recruits."

"You scheduled this, you mean," Cassandra says.

"I merely shuffled some pieces. Letters are a poor substitute for company, I think."

Josephine looks her up and down again, as she had in the Undercroft. At least Cassandra is decent, this time, as covered as Josephine is, and significantly less interesting to look upon. Cassandra doesn't picture anything in particular when she reads Josephine's letters. Never mind her glowing skin, the delicate little moles on her face, the laugh in her grey eyes. What she has is much better: the impression of a mind that is utterly organized, methodical, an absolute pleasure to work with.

"Very well. But are you are _sure_ ," Cassandra says, patting her chest, "you are positive, that there is not some way to incorporate a breastplate?"

Josephine smiles, as though Cassandra is joking.

*****

Knight-Captain Briony, their escort to Denerim, is a Free Marcher of middling height, middling build, middling looks, a terrifying aptitude for every sort of fighting imaginable, and an equal lack aptitude for conversation.

There. A description Cassandra would be proud to put in a letter.

But, as Josephine said: letters are a poor substitute for company. She has spent more time with Josephine's words than with Josephine herself. She passes the time on the road simply _talking_ to Josephine: mapping out Josephine's fluttering hand gestures, as her mouth attempts to keep pace with the speed of her mind. Her attempts to hide her smiles and enthusiasms. How she fails to realize when she's begun to rant or gossip, only to interrupt herself in the middle of a sentence.

They share a bed, one night, when inn rooms are scarce and Briony wearily requests a room for herself.

"You're sure," Cassandra says, keeping her back firmly to Josephine, while Josephine changes into her night-dress, "that this is all right?"

"Seeker," says Josephine. Cassandra peeks over her shoulder and catches only a brief glimpse of--skin that is paler under her clothes. A mole, on Josephine's shoulderblade. Hands run through loosened hair, only to pull it back up again. Hurriedly, Cassandra turns around. "If I wasn't sure, I would say so. _I_ think we know one another well enough by now, don't you?"

Another thing to add to her understanding of Josephine Montilyet: she sleeps on her side, but adjusts her position constantly while falling asleep. She wheezes, when she sleeps--not a snore, but still distracting. Irritating.

There is, between Josephine's lower lip and her chin, a hole for a piercing.

Cassandra stares at it for longer than she cares to admit to herself, before she drifts off, holding herself very stiff and still.

And another thing: Josephine has nightmares.

Seekers do not dream: a side-effect of being Tranquil, if only for an instant. Cassandra wakes to Josephine's strangled gasp, to her sitting bolt upright in their bed. She lunges for her sword before she realizes what is happening.

Josephine has her face buried in her hands. She breathes, slow, measured, and Cassandra sits up, to put an arm around her shoulder. It feels natural. If Josephine did not want to be touched right now, Cassandra would know immediately.

"I'm here," Cassandra says. "And if it comes from the Fade, I can kill it."

With a shudder, and not a single word--what could be so horrible that it robs Josephine of her words?--she lays down again. She allows Cassandra to take her into her arms, to stroke her hair until she stills. with Josephine wound around her, clinging like a vine. A soft, perfumed vine. The more she contemplates Josephine's body, the further the analogy breaks down.

"Seeker," Josephine says, when she wakes up. "We've slept too long, and I ordered baths for us this morning."

Cassandra releases her. Josephine keeps an exacting schedule, even on the road.

"You slept poorly, Lady Josephine," Cassandra says, to prolong their time in bed. The intimate _Josie_ is at the very tip of her tongue. She might indulge--Leliana does. Even Cullen and the Inquisitor have been known to sigh an exasperated _Josie_ , _please,_ from time to time.

"I'm aware," says Josephine. Her nightgown is white, lace-encrusted, flawlessly modest. Even her arms are covered to the wrists. There is only the hollow of her throat to look at, and even that, Josephine hastens to button away when she sits up. How clear and pale her eyes look, in the early morning light.

Cassandra turns onto her back. She has no intention of moving. "Tell me."

Here is something the letters never could have conveyed: the mulish set of Josephine's jaw when she hears a request phrased as an order. "I was drowning," Josephine says. "You would think--that I'd dream of fire, after Haven. But I always dream of drowning, alone." _Are you happy?_ her tone asks. _Have I satisfied your curiosity?_

"I don't mean to pry," Cassandra says.

"You did."

"I did. Lie down, Lady Josephine."

Again, the jaw. "We need to be on the road by--"

"Cullen has been working Briony non-stop for months," says Cassandra, and it strikes her as absurd, that _she_ should be the least straight-laced person in a given room. "Tourneys. Duels. Hunting maleficarum, and now hard travel with us. Let her sleep in, if you can't let yourself. We'll make up the time."

Cassandra does not care either way about Knight-Captain Briony; if the woman was truly exhausted, she would say something for herself. Templars are built to function without complaint, even when they're miserable. But the argument works on Josephine, and she sinks back under the blankets without another word.

The tension is palpable, but only in Cassandra's head. She rolls onto her side to face Josephine's back. It is too much to hope, that Josephine might allow herself to be held again, for all that they fit so neatly together in the night.

She is not a blushing virgin. She can diagnose the pounding of her heart, the tension in her jaw whenever Josephine shifts, nearer to her, without ever touching, as simple lust.

Years, since she woke up next to someone, and that someone was not sharing her bedroll in a freezing tent in the wilds. Years, since she felt anything more than an idle stirring of interest for anyone but Regalyan, who is dead (what use is thinking around the wound?) and even longer, since a woman turned her head. Josephine may have planned--scheduled, even--their friendship, but surely she could not have planned for _this_. People must fall in love with her every third day, and not realize her politesse is also a tool.

"You're right," Josephine says, just when Cassandra thinks she's fallen back asleep. "I don't mean to be snappish."

"It has been a privilege to see you nearly lose your temper," Cassandra manages. "Please, feel free to do so again whenever you like. You don't need to hide it from me; I promise you, mine is worse."

Josephine's laugh is near-silent, a faint huff, but Cassandra feels it. _Hide nothing from me, when we're alone together,_ she would say, if she thought she could get the words out without stumbling. _You never need be the ambassador when we're together. We are_ friends _, Lady Josephine_. And no more.

*******

They take rooms not at the royal palace, or at the Arl of Denerim's estate, but at the Antivan embassy.

"Hang the politics," Josephine says, as they stand on the hill overlooking the city--words Cassandra has never heard from her. "This is the nearest I'll get to going home in the next five years."

Josephine is so natural in her role that one can forget that that every detail of her service was laid out in writing before she even came to Haven. A five-year contract, provided they lived long enough to see it through. An enormous amount of money paid out to House Montilyet, in the event of her death in the line of duty. Cassandra had not thought much of putting her name to the paper, at the time; diplomats were snakes, and any one of their number would have suited. And Leliana, who trusted so few, trusted this woman.

"And if the queen questions it?" Cassandra asks, as they enter the city. "'Ambassador Montilyet, why did you not accept my offer? We have a guest wing in the palace.'"

"Ah," Josephine says, and her accent grows broader and heavier, "your royal majesty, I understand why you ask--I am from the beautiful land of Antiva, and I have been so long in _cruel_ Orlais, and then in your beautiful Fereldan mountains, yes? So long from my home. The chance to be on my native soil was too much for my tender heart to resist."

She presses one hand to her breast and the other to her forehead. Ser Briony snickers. Cassandra had forgotten the other woman was even _there_. The sun is setting. The palace district is fairly bristling with soldiers, none of whom seem bold enough to approach people in Inquisition livery, but they are bold enough to stare. It is a relief, then, when they reach the ridiculous, gold-encrusted embassy.

Antiva's ambassador to Ferelden is a woman Cassandra's age, tall as Leliana, with rich, dark skin. She meets them at the rosewood door, kisses Josephine softly on the mouth--in greeting--in _greeting_ , this is how Antivans _greet_ one another, and nothing more--and sweeps her away for dinner and aperitifs. Josephine has only enough time to look over her shoulder at Cassandra, apologetic, before she's caught up

Ser Briony is shown to the servants' quarters by a matched pair of giggling maids. Cassandra is shown to to her own room by a stiff-lipped Fereldan butler--whether he had been stiff-lipped before he began working for Antivans, it is impossible to say. In deference to good taste, or in order to fatten some launderess's pocket, the room is decorated in pure white, with a bed large enough to host a Nevarran feast on, and lace on every surface that can possibly be plastered with lace.

Two dozen Chantry sisters must have gone blind, making all of this lace. It's absurd. Cassandra loves every inch of it on sight.

She can see the River Drakon from her window, and on the opposite side, the lights of the market district. There is a single door, on the far wall. She drops her bags in the center of the carpet and throws it open, to see a chamber done up in gold and deep crimson. Josephine's bags are already there, and one of Briony's giggling maids is putting Josephine's clothes up in the armoire. "Seeker, ser," the girl says, dropping the deepest curtsey Cassandra has seen this side of Val Royeaux. "Will you be needing anything, ser?"

"No," Cassandra says, and closes the door.

Adjoined rooms. Maker preserve her. She has her dinner alone, and swears she will not disturb Josephine this evening. Josephine has a breakfast with the queen, in the morning. Cassandra reminds herself of this, as she tries to fall asleep, when she hears Josephine enter her room.

The door between their chambers opens a crack. "Seeker," Josephine whispers. "Are you awake?"

For one cowardly instant, Cassandra considers pretending to be asleep. But she sits up. In the light from the other room, she can see that Josephine's cheeks are flushed from drink. "Go to bed," Cassandra says firmly, running a hand through her hair. "Whatever it is, it can wait."

If this was one of Cassandra's novels--

Josephine tosses her hair defiantly, throws the door open, and comes to her bed. Cassandra refuses her advances, and they sleep chastely next to each other, as they did on the road. Cassandra wakes Josephine with a kiss. There are no problems outside this room. Josephine is a simple mapmaker whose ship has stopped in Denerim; Cassandra is a sword-for-hire, one of a thousand of her kind, out for adventure.

But they are who they are. The question is still pointless. Josephine only nods, and shuts the door, and leaves Cassandra to her thoughts.

*******

They borrow the embassy's least gaudy carriage. In the morning, Josephine is a vision in purple, a bright spot against the unrelieved brown and green of the palace district.

In the daylight, Denerim is an obsessively tidy city--a sacking by darkspawn will have that effect on a people, Cassandra supposes--but a very dull and sleepy one. The royal palace itself is only distinguishable from the buildings around it by the pennants waving in the breeze, and the sense of readiness in the soldiers patrolling it.

"We should have brought Ser Briony," Cassandra says, and Josephine shakes her head. She wipes her palms on her skirts. She adjusts, for the fourth time, the chain of office over her shoulders.

"Ambassador Josephine Montilyet, ambassador and chief diplomat to the Inquisition," Josephine says to a guard, without introducing Cassandra. The woman nods curtly and motions Cassandra aside, and Cassandra does not have time to remark before Josephine is taken into the bowels of the palace, and she is led away to the soldier's mess.

Josephine does not look back at her. Cassandra hadn't imagined herself taking breakfast with Josephine and the queen, but she hadn't _not_ imagined it.

Every guard in the mess hall stares at her when she enters.

"Sit," one of them says. A tall, pale woman, with greying hair and a broadsword. No. Cassandra can do better: an old soldier, long in the royal family's service, judging from the way every other guard in the room looks to see how she reacts to an Inquisition soldier. There is a red sash over her chest, and a medal of service pinned to it. "I thought the ambassador would come with a full guard," the woman says, setting a bowl of porridge in front of Cassandra. Her accent is cultured.

"The ambassador trusts that the queen's guard will keep her safe," Cassandra says, rather than reveal that they only came with one another. "Ser--?"

"Cauthrien. You?"

She had ought to lie. Leliana would be lying, right now. "Cassandra."

"Templar?"

She is in anonymous, plain Inquisition plate, the same as Briony's. If this Cauthrien does not recognize her name, she might be anyone. To speak with someone, to address a room full of people without her reputation preceeding her--"There are no more templars," Cassandra says. "There are abominations running loose in your countryside."

"We've heard tell of them. Have you fought one?"

Dozens. "Enough to know that they should be destroyed."

"Even though it might be one of your sisters- or brothers-in-arms--Knight-Captain?"

Cassandra takes a thoughtful bite of the porridge. She never had much use for templars in her service to Beatrix, and even less in her service to Justinia. At some point they had become interchangeable, young, spry bodies to her, to be loaned out from the nearest Circle, and swiftly mourned, should they die in the fight against some apostate or another.

"The medal you wear," she says, rather than answer the question, or invent some rank for herself. "You're a veteran of Ostagar and the Blight, and your country's civil war. Surely, you've killed your share of former friends."

"Ser Cassandra," Cauthrien says.

Some of the younger guards draw back, at the tone in her voice. Maker, when was the last time someone thought they could threaten _her_? Seeker of Truth, Hero of Orlais, Right Hand to two Divines (much like Cassandra's middle names, the titles never become less ridiculous-sounding when lined up next to one another), spoken down to like a raw recruit. It's freeing.

"If you wish to know about the Inquisition," Cassandra goes on, "I will gladly answer any of your questions."

"Someone find Ser Cassandra practice weapons," Cauthrien says, eyeing the expensive make of Cassandra's sword, "as she'll be answering them during morning drills."

There are a suspicious number of 'new recruits' who require 'extra instruction' at an Inquisition soldier's hand, all of whom try their damnedest to knock Cassandra down. _My sister Aldra joined up a year ago, do you know where she is?_ asks a spotty, red-headed boy. Cassandra does, in fact, know of a Sergeant Aldra, stationed in the Western Approach. _Is it true the Herald of Andraste is an oxwoman?_ A Vashoth, born outside the Qun, and an ardent believer in Andraste and the Maker, even before she was chosen. And on and on, while their guard-captain watches, and Cassandra does not go down.

The weak midmorning sun is beating down Cassandra's neck by the time Josephine reappears. Cassandra buffets a boy aside with her shield to get a look at her. At a distance, Queen Anora is tall, slender, a column of white marble; Josephine smiles up at her and curtseys deeply. Then Ser Cauthrien goes to meet them, and whispers something in Anora's ear.

"Seeker!" Josephine says, handkerchief already in hand to mop the dust from Cassandra's brow. (She is hardly dirty.) "Seeker, _there_ you are."

At the revelation of Cassandra's title, Cauthrien looks steadfastly unimpressed. Queen Anora is in the open doorway, and Cauthrien goes to meet her, then stoops down to whisper something in her ear. The queen nods, and returns to the palace.

"You impressed the guard-captain," Josephine says, when they're free of the place, and back in the embassy's carriage. "Queen Anora values her opinion very highly."

"Highly, or _highly_?"

" _Highly,"_ Josephine says. "And has valued it highly for ten years now, if you believe the gossip."

"Ah. I insulted her," Cassandra replies. "I suggested that she'd murdered her friends."

"You did precisely what I was doing over tea"--Josephine wrinkles her nose at the thought of _tea_ \--"and a full Fereldan breakfast. These people are impressed by strength of arms, not pretty words."

"Was pitting me against the whole of the Fereldan royal guard the aim of your meeting?"

"No," says Josephine, "but I very much enjoyed watching it. In Orlais, I might have spent weeks going from party to party, in order to accomplish what you did in an hour, and neither of us had to wear a mask to do it."

Cassandra clears her throat, as though she has some response to that. Taking on all comers is... nothing, a party trick, an insignificant stunt. There is nothing impressive in finding and exploiting the flaws a child's form. But Josephine looks pleased.

"The Queen and I spoke of the Inquisition's work in the Hinterlands, and of the undead in Crestwood. I could not tell you if she favors our claim to the keep."

"Did you like her?"

Josephine raises an eyebrow. It might be Leliana, looking skeptically at her, but for the difference in their heights. "You know as well as I that it is not a matter of _like,_ with royalty _._ "

"Tell me your impressions, then. As you would--in your letters."

"I thought she would be like Celene, but beyond their physical similarities, there is no comparison. Anora seems... angrier. I wouldn't presume to know her mind, but I can imagine she must always be aware of her father," Josephine says. "If she is flawless, it is despite her father's being a freeholder, never mind that Teyrn Loghain drove back the Orlesians at the River Dane, never mind that she was raised to be a king's wife, and then to run a country in her husband's stead. But if she makes a single misstep, it is because of her low birth, and not because she is only a mortal, like the rest of us."

"Do you make those up on the spot," Cassandra says, "or do you compose them ahead of time?"

Josephine hides her smile behind a hand. "You enjoy them in letters. I didn't think you'd enjoy it in person. And we have the rest of the day free." She pulls a pamphlet out of one of her dress's pockets. "Shall we see the sights?"

It is not a question. They adhere to some schedule--always, a schedule--which exists only in Josephine's head; Josephine is an obnoxious sightseer, and insists on reading out every last detail of every last sight, from the market, where they buy two pairs of shoes for Leliana; to the alienage, where they pay their humble respects to Bann Shianni. Back to the palace district again, to the steps of Fort Drakon, where she reads out the pamphlet's description of the Hero of Ferelden's last stand and tragic sacrifice to the Archdemon.

More importantly: Josephine, drunk on success, touches Cassandra's upper arm at every interesting thing she sees. She takes Cassandra's waist to lead her around corners. She leans in to whisper disparaging rumors she's heard about passing nobles.

Years of learning from Leliana's less-than-legal skillset has taught Cassandra to recognize a tail, and, apparently, so has Josephine. The spotty boy from the palace, and a lieutenant from the royal guard. Without a word to Cassandra, Josephine shakes off their followers no less than three times, until they come to Andraste's birth stone, the very last stop in their tour, tucked away in a dead-end street.

"The Grand Cleric still won't meet with me," Josephine says, watching the thin crowd around the stone. A tall, plain column, with flowers and lit candles strewn about its base. A child's history lesson: Ferelden claims Denerim for Andraste's birthplace. Orlais claims Jader, largely out of spite. The stone--the Rock--is only a way to draw pilgrims to the city, to bolster that claim. "The Fereldan Chantry finds our claims 'spurious,' as though Leliana were not present when Andraste's ashes were revealed to the world."

Their tails are keeping a respectful distance, for the moment. Cassandra elbows her way through the crowd (a foreigner's prerogative). On the stone there is a crude, weathered carving of Andraste, clad in armor, crowned with light. Andraste, with her eyes shut, laying down her sword and shield for a rest.

"To our left is Bann Alfstanna, of the Waking Sea," Josephine is saying, under her breath. "And the bann of Dragon's Peak, too. On the opposite side of the stone, Teyrn Cousland, of Highever. The current arl of Denerim's mother and two daughters. Do look impressed by the large rock, Seeker."

Cassandra hardly attends to Josephine's speech. She _is_ impressed. She has seen every possible depiction of the Lady. Andraste carrying spears, bows, a mage's staff. _Andraste Imperat,_ as the Tevinters call her,at the head of a golden army. Andraste, dressed in tatters, breaking the chains of slaves. A life-sized idol of the Masked Andraste, taken as evidence by the Seekers. She has never liked any of them, in the way that she likes this. Josephine hangs back a step, as Cassandra allows herself to be drawn forward, to join them in placing her palms to the stone.

The Maker is, as always, silent.

It has not bothered Cassandra in years. She has never questioned, until now, until imagining herself as--something other than what she is. _This_ is the only doubt she's ever had. It curdles her stomach.

"I suppose it's just as well that you've come," Josephine says. Her touch to Andraste's forehead is perfunctory. "The Commander would stop to pet every mabari we see"--there are fewer than Cassandra would have imagined, but an abundance of every other sort of dog imaginable--"and Leliana's two most vivid memories of the city are of being stabbed here, and of the place being on fire and swarming with darkspawn."

"And Dorian and Vivienne would be insufferable, I'm sure," Cassandra says. She does not want to discuss this. "Is this why you chose me, Lady Josephine?"

"You know why I chose you," Josephine replies, softly.

The spotty boy following them chooses that moment to come too close to them. Cassandra is _quite_ finished with being tracked like a wild boar. She seizes him by the collar.

" _You_ ," Cassandra says, and the boy quails, and fumbles for something at his side. Not a dagger. If he were armed, she would have ended this earlier. "Explain yourself." She lifts him so that he's standing on his toes, and tracks his counterpart, as the older woman, who is loosely circling them. The crowd draws back as one being, watching, waiting for violence to break out.

There is a faint battering at Cassandra's back, and she glances over her shoulder. Josephine smacks her breastplate with the pamphlet one last time. "Stop," Josephine snaps, "unhand him, Seeker, for Andraste's sake, he's an agent of the Crown."

Set upon them for their protection, or to watch their comings and goings. Cassandra sets the boy back down on his feet, but she does not let him go. He manages to pull a golden badge from his pocket, emblazoned with a mabari rampant.

"Ser. I'm terribly sorry. You were only doing your job," Josephine says, in a carrying voice, more to the crowd than to the boy himself, uncurling Cassandra's hand from his collar. She gives him a cursory bow, and, red-faced, pulls Cassandra away from questioning eyes, back to their waiting carriage.

They do not speak, in the carriage. When they reach the River Drakon, Josephine pounds on the roof for their driver to stop. She disembarks without so much as a glance at Cassandra, and Cassandra follows.

Josephine's posture is rigid, as she stands at the stone rail.

"You've made a spectacle of us," Josephine begins, calmly enough, staring out over the waters. Perhaps they calm her. Perhaps they are only here so that the rush will muffle their argument.

"They might have been assassins."

"Do you think I, of all people, cannot recognize an assassin? Do you think I would come to Denerim with only two guards if the city was not crawling with Leliana's people, and that one of them did not alert me of the identity of the ones following us? There were nobles in that crowd. I _told_ you there were nobles in the crowd. All of them, come to the capital to see the mighty Inquisition receive its honors, and this is their first impression of us." She folds her hands neatly. They are shaking. "This was not the time for the Pentaghast temper to show itself."

Cassandra crosses her arms. "Hang the politics. Two people had ought to be able to enjoy a day of leisure without their every move being followed."

"Don't be obtuse. This was not a day of _leisure_. I have not taken a day of leisure in years. We visited the market to be seen patronizing Fereldan merchants. We visited the alienage to show that we stand for all in Thedas, elves included. We visited the Stone to display our piety _."_

"I hardly hurt him."

"You might as well have." And still, Josephine looks out over the river. Cassandra feels ill. "We are not _two people_. We are the Inquisition. The Inquisition purports to be a group of peacekeepers, but they have seized an unoccupied fortress in the backwoods, perhaps as a springboard to invade Ferelden? You, the most senior officer of the Inquisition, short of the Herald of Andraste herself, assaulted an agent of the Crown, and so perhaps they are nothing but thugs after all. "

"Leliana outranks me, surely--"

"Obtuse. If Leliana were here, she would have known to ignore them."

Cassandra scoffs. "Because Leliana is perfect."

"Because Leliana knows what is expected of her."

"If you wanted a tame dog," Cassandra says, "you should have brought Cullen. I am not a decoration."

She does not know which of them is more shocked, when Josephine whirls on her and prods at Cassandra's breastplate. Josephine stares at her hand, then prods at her again, more forcefully.

"Don't you _dare_ quote my letters back at me." Josephine's voice is low. "The Commanderwould have asked me who was following us before making a scene. The Right Hand of the Divine can do as she pleases. She can cause as much of a fuss as she likes, without consequences, but there is no longer a Divine, and Cassandra Pentaghast cannot do. And I did not want either of them here! I did not want Lady Vivienne. I did not want the Iron Bull. I did not want Dorian. I wanted _you._ Perhaps I was wrong, to want."

By the end of her speech, the anger that moved Josephine to what must have been the first act of violence she's committed in years--Cassandra knows all about the dead bard--has dissipated. She sounds mournful, even. Cassandra reaches out to touch her shoulder, to steady her, and Josephine shrugs her off. She regains her composure by degrees. First, the trembling in her hands ceases. Then she takes a single deep breath, and smiles, widely, just once, as though reacquainting herself with the motion.

 _Perhaps I was wrong, to want_.

It is Cassandra's turn to look blankly out over the river.

Cullen and Leliana speak in hushed tones of Josephine's legendary _disappointment_ , a phenomenon so terrifying that, in order to avoid it, they both turn up in her office without argument or complaint at some unholy hour of the morning to drink her dreadful coffee with a smile and discuss the Inquisition's business. This must be what it feels like: the stomach-churning knowledge that she has completely, utterly, irrevocably let Josephine Montilyet down.

"I'll be holding audiences at the embassy this evening, and all of tomorrow," Josephine says, at last. "I'm sure I'll have to answer endless questions about today's incident before I get to my business. You will stay well out of sight."

"Of course," says Cassandra. She offers Josephine an arm to get back up into the carriage. Josephine takes it without thought or comment. "Lady Josephine--"

Josephine stares out the window opposite Cassandra. "Yes," she says. "You _are_ very sorry."

*

And so Cassandra is left to her own devices.

If this was an argument with Leliana, they would have already resolved it and moved forward. Years of service together, and they know one another like they know their own weapons. If this was an argument with Cullen, he would be avoiding her, as he avoided all of his problems, and she would track him down and pummel it out of him. Varric would needle at her until took a swing at him, and then she laughed.

With Josephine, it is not an argument so much as it is a march to the scaffold. If Leliana were here--but Leliana is not here to advise her. Possibly Leliana's presence would make it worse. There is only one person to turn to, then.

She finds Briony in the embassy garden, polishing her armor. The giggling maids watch her from behind the bushes (which had ought not to be flowering at this time of year; there must be an apostate on staff here), and they scatter like little birds when Cassandra approaches.

"Knight-Captain," Cassandra says.

Briony glances up from her breastplate. "Lady Seeker."

"I'd like to--"

She catches the wooden sword Briony tosses her, and returns Briony's silent nod with her own.

Briony is a younger woman. She is faster, and less burdened by old injuries, and completely unfettered by any silly ideas about fair play in a sparring match, all of which Cassandra is glad for. At some point, someone brings the two of them a pair of shields, and a waterskin to share; at some point, Cassandra becomes aware of a crowd of spectators, hovering at the margins of her awareness, but there is only an opponent, here. There is just the aching of her ribs, the bruise on her thighs, the scrape on her forehead from one particularly good blow. Pain simplifies.

"Just apologize, ser," Briony says, panting, when it's over, and their audience has gone.

This is possibly the first time Briony has said so much as a word to Cassandra, outside of _Horses are ready, ser,_ and _I don't like the look of those clouds, ser._

"Begging your pardon, but it's none of my business what you did to get the Lady Ambassador in a huff. But I have my own lass back at Skyhold. Calla, her name is. Orlesian-raised, but Rivaini as a cellar full of rum. Sweeter than a mouthful of honey, until she's not. The northern sort, they do love a good grovel. Comes of being told they're goddesses all their lives."

"I'll remind you to watch your tone," Cassandra says, as she would have, once, before the world was turned upside down. She had once had some very defined ideas about the uses of templars, and their place with relation to her. She had once had some _very_ defined ideas about the uses of diplomats, until one chose her.

 _Chose_. Shared her most private, impolitic thoughts and opinions. Talked about her hopes and aspirations.

"I'll consider it," Cassandra adds.

And she sees, from the corner of her eye, Josephine and some noble, watching them from a high balcony.

Cassandra has spent the past day re-reading Josephine's letters, for some clue as to what is in her mind. In Josephine's world, words are cheap. She makes and discards promises like Bull breaks shields. Only results matter. Groveling will get Cassandra nowhere.

"Ser Briony," Cassandra says. "Wash your face and change into clean clothes. You and I are going to the Chantry."

"Bit late in the day for lighting candles, begging your pardon again, ser."

"Consider it begged. Double time, Knight-Captain," she says, and gathers up their swords.

*******

It follows, then, that they are late for Josephine's briefing about the reception. Josephine frowns at the scrape on Cassandra's forehead, and the bruise on Briony's cheekbone, but does not comment on either.

"Queen Anora dislikes obsequiousness," she begins. "A simple bow from each of us will suffice--no scraping or flouncing, as one would for the Empress. The Ferelden court takes great pride in being nothing like Orlais."

"Not hard," Briony says. "All you have to do is use a little less perfume, and not poison anyone's drink."

 _That_ makes Josephine smile.

The rest of the party's attendees--the relevant ones--will be various banns competing to sell grain and meat to the Inquisition, and Josephine will handle the remembering of their names, and the pitting of their offers against one another. All Cassandra and Briony have to do is keep their mouths shut. She points to each bannorn on her personal, annotated map of Ferelden, to explain the feuds she plans to exploit, the recent yields of of each noble's harvest.

The map is handmade, not a reproduction. The paper is very fine. The Fereldan motifs--the mabari, the bear, the kingfisher, the plough-horse--around it are finely drawn, in crimson and gold ink, and the Montilyet crest is stamped in the bottom-right corner. _The ordering of the world, and our places in it._ Cassandra has read these words a dozen times

"Your map," Cassandra attempts. "It's very beautiful."

"Yvette draws them for me." Josephine looks _at_ her for the first time in a day. "She's very gifted, when she puts her mind to it. I wouldn't pay for her art schooling, were she not meant to put it to use. She'll learn discipline, in time--she'll have to."

And then Josephine carries on talking about the bannorn, until Briony is nearly asleep, Cassandra's attention is wandering, despite her best efforts, and a knock interrupts the speech. One of Briony's maids, bearing an envelope emblazoned with a Chantry sunburst.

"Ah," Josephine says, slitting it open neatly with her thumb.

"The reason we were late," Cassandra says. "We went to the Chantry to--"

"Kick down doors on my behalf?"

"To ask after the Grand Cleric Elemena's health. She and Most Holy--Beatrix--became Revered Mothers together. They were dear friends. If _I_ came to Denerim with you, there is no reason but a long illness to explain why they might have refused to meet with you."

Josephine re-reads the letter. Briony looks toward the door, questioningly. Cassandra nods, and Briony leaves.

"And?" Josephine asks.

"She is dying, of course," Cassandra says.

There is no _of course_ about it. Beatrix's decline had been slow and cruel. First, she had forgotten portions of the Chant. Then she forgot Cassandra's name, intermittently, forgot where she was, stopped being able to feed herself or walk, until she returned to the Maker's side. There had been no _Beatrix_ left, at the very end. Elemena had been deaf as ever, and her every breath had been wet and labored. Fearsomely swollen calves and ankles, propped up on a pillow.

In moments Cassandra is not proud of, she thanks Him, for striking Justinia down so swiftly.

Josephine says nothing. Cassandra gathers herself. "She asked me if we'd found a replacement for 'that upstart hussy Dorothea,' as none of her sisters or her Revered Mother will give her any news of the outside, for fear of setting off an attack of the coughs."

"And now the Revered Mother wishes to meet with me."

"After a lengthy shouting-at from the Grand Cleric, I'm sure. Will you see her?"

"Yes," Josephine says, re-folding the paper. "Maker, _yes_."

"I," Cassandra says, "have made your life needlessly difficult. I made you question your judgment, among other things. If this goes some small way toward making amends, it will have been worth it."

She reaches for Josephine's hand across the table. When Josephine does not shake her off, or respond, or do anything more discouraging than look deeply into Cassandra's eyes, Cassandra goes on, "Lady Josephine--I am frequently thoughtless. There have rarely been consequences, when I speak rashly."

Josephine raises that eyebrow again. Did she learn it from Leliana, or Leliana, from her? _Yes_ , she is too polite to say, _your birth and your rank have always been more than enough to smooth your path in life and make your apologies for you. What of it?_

"At Haven," Cassandra says. "One of the mages we brought back from Redcliffe complained to me of their conditions. I was thoughtless, and I spoke to him as though he was a spoiled child, when I knew he had dozens of very young mages under his care. I did not realize how uncouth I was until the Inquisitor herself took me aside and explained to me, at great length, what I'd done.

"I have spent months with you by my side, no matter where we were. I carry you--your letters--with me, wherever the Inquisitor takes me. Through them, I thought I knew you, your temperament. What you could bear. I was wrong--and I don't seek to excuse my manners. I only wish to make amends, if you'll allow it."

If Cassandra had clubbed her over the head, she thinks, Josephine would not look less stunned. It is as good as a confession of love, and still, Josephine does not respond. She will have received prettier confessions, from the peacocks in Orlais, from her own countrywomen and men, from anyone who mistakenly thinks they can use her. But none so sincere.

Cassandra is given to understand, from her books and from Briony's extensive, unsolicited coaching on the way to and from the Chantry, that an important part of any good grovel is being on one's knees. She compromises, and drops down on one, and finds herself at a loss for anything more to say. She's exhausted her supply of eloquence for at least the next year.

At last, Josephine says, "Oh, get up, you--you absolute--"

"Oaf," Cassandra offers. "Fool."

"Yes--no. _Yes_. We need to get dressed. I _still_ don't know what I'm to do with my hair. Consider your amends made, Seeker." When Cassandra stands, it is Josephine's turn to catch her hand. "In truth," she says, "I should have told you about Leliana's people sooner."

"We can assign blame all day, or we can move forward," Cassandra says, and bends, to kiss press a courtly kiss to the backs of Josephine's knuckles. She hopes it's courtly. One glance is enough to confirm that it was decidedly _not,_ and that Josephine could not be more delighted.

*

Cassandra hates the Landsmeet chamber on sight.

There is only one visible entrance, and with barricaded doors and archers in the upper balconies, the place could be turned into a slaughterhouse. Knight-Captain Briony, from her grimace at the sight of the long room, is having the exact same thoughts. She looks as uncomfortable out of plate as Cassandra feels. Josephine wears the uniform as though she was born to it.

The nobles in the room eye them with less suspicion than Cassandra might have expected, after her display in the market, and when Cassandra points this out--Josephine is a perfect lady. She does not shuffle her feet, or glance around with a distracted air.

"The most effective way explain your behavior," Josephine murmurs, "was to put out the rumor that we were connected, and that you become overprotective, at times. Your fierce Nevarran passions, and so on. Something about the blood of dragon hunters in your veins." She waves a beringed hand. "Fereldans are great romantics, at heart."

" _Connected_ ," Cassandra says.

But then they're ushered along to their places on the stone stage at the head of the room. Anora's speech thanking the Inquisition for alerting her to the attempt on her life, and for their continued good works on Ferelden's behalf, is nothing but a bit of puffery, but a brief one. The medals are real silver, at least.

Connected. There is a single golden stud in that fascinating spot below Josephine's lip. She wears three rings, and no other jewelry. Cassandra recognizes one, from a dozen wax seals, as the Montilyet signet. Another, an ornate silver piece set with a sapphire, as Leliana's. The third is a wide, carved wooden band so large Josephine wears it on her thumb, and Cassandra watches dumbly as Anora lifts Josephine's wrist to examine it.

Josephine catches Cassandra's and Briony's eyes and shakes her head, near-imperceptibly. A queen can be as familiar as she likes.

"A Ferelden woodcarver came to Skyhold to sell his wares," says Josephine. "Our Commander is a son of Ferelden, and I forced him to buy something lovely for himself. I'm told it depicts--one of your heroes? Hafter, who drove back the darkspawn. I must ask him to tell me the rest of the story, sometime."

"I see," Anora says _. She is so pale she might appear bloodless, lifeless, if not for the intelligence in her eyes, all of it fixed on me,_ Josephine might write. Cassandra would be too embarrassed to put such a thing on the page.

"I suppose wearing it _here_ is a bit transparent of me," Josephine continues, airily, and removes the ring to hand to the queen. "But I've always been fond of the piece--my country played host to the Fourth Blight, after all. And Commander Cullen was so disappointed, when he learned he was not to accompany me to see his queen, that I thought I ought to bring something of his along to meet her in his stead."

"You were sighted at the Birth Rock, after we met," Anora says, as the musicians begin to play. No mention of the incident. "How did you find it, Seeker Pentaghast?"

"I have heard tell of the Rock in Jader," Cassandra says. "I much prefer the Fereldan version. Andraste, laying down her arms, it is... truer."

"And what do you think of the Fereldan claim?"

This is a test. This is a trap. This is the sort of thing Josephine faces down every day without breaking her stride.

"I am not sure if you wish for my opinion, or if you ask me as a representative of a Divine who is no longer with us," Cassandra says, "and Divine Justinia never expressed an opinion to favor either claim. 'Seeker,' Most Holy would say to me, 'we must concern ourselves with Her _word_.' If I could ask her now--"

The sudden pause, the stoppering of her throat, is not affected. Two deaths she could not have prevented. One swift, one slow. And then there is Regalyan. The sisters and lay sisters in Justinia's retinue, all of whom Cassandra had known for years, and loved dearly. She has kept herself far, far too busy to think much on this, until these past few days; she is not Leliana, who will wallow endlessly in her guilt unless beaten out of it. She moves _forward_. Josephine leans in, places a hand on Cassandra's shoulder.

"You have my thoughts, Seeker," Queen Anora says, her voice pitched only for their ears, and Cassandra can hear the real sympathy in it. "I know what it is to lose, and to be expected to carry on with one's head high. Please--do enjoy your evening. And, Lady Montilyet," she adds, more loudly, before they walk away, "I hear nothing from your country's ambassador but of how beautifully you dance. Do save one for me."

"Perfect," Josephine says, once they're out of earshot. Briony retreats to the nearest wall and attempts to make herself invisible. "I could not have done it better myself."

"I'm sure you could have." Cassandra pulls herself together. Even if the court did not hear her words, anyone looking at the dais would have witnessed something of her--her _fierce Nevarran passions_. Mortifying. "Please, don't feel you need to save a dance for me; I'll only embarrass you."

"We're connected, remember," Josephine says, linking her arm in Cassandra's and descending into the crowd. "People will wonder that we don't dance."

"You and I will address _that_ rumor later."

A moment too late, Cassandra realizes the innuendo, and then Josephine plunges herself headfirst into the crowd.

Cassandra attended the ball that celebrated Josephine's second term as ambassador, to lend the weight of her presence to Leliana's. Cassandra had not much cared about her either way, then; it had been only one of many parties Leliana insisted she attend. Josephine had been at the center of the room, dressed in pure white, with only a golden half-mask and a pair of heavy golden earrings to adorn herself. The room revolved around her then, and it revolves around her now.

Ser Briony remains glued to the wall, utterly miserable. Josephine peels her off of it for a simple country dance, one with leaps, and sends her back laughing. She dances with the Antivan ambassador. She takes the floor with no fewer than eight lesser nobles, and reserves the last dance of the night for the Queen herself, their foreheads close, discussing some business Cassandra is not privy to. Money. A regiment of troops. The rights to a disused fortress the Inquisition has already staffed and renovated. These things fall into Josephine's lap, when Josephine is _on_.

Between her dealings, Josephine rescues Cassandra from the crowd of curious young women she's attracted. Josephine puts a hand on her lower back, and stands on her toes to whisper something in Cassandra's ear. Josephine hails down a tray of pastries, then feeds one to Cassandra when she protests her dislike of party foods.

They do not dance. Yet.

*******

If she stares any harder at the door between their chambers, she is sure it will catch on fire. She has stripped down to her trousers, and the thin undershirt beneath the jacket; she understands, now, Josephine's long gaze at her upper arm.

Gone is the dress uniform; in its place, Josephine wears the white nightgown, buttoned to the throat, once more. In the lamplight, it looks less frothy, and more--Cassandra lacks the words. Luminous. Josephine is too solid, too of this world, to ever be ethereal. Her hair is, gloriously, down about her shoulders.

"Caer Bronach is ours," Josephine says.

"Good," says Cassandra. "That's--good."

"But--'I carry you with me wherever I go'--don't say such things," Josephine says, before Cassandra can get another word out. "Not if you don't mean them. I won't be toyed with." She stops a hairsbreadth outside Cassandra's reach. The hem of her nightgown sways, enough for Cassandra to see her gold-painted toes.

"I keep my favorite letters of yours in my pack when Adaar drags me out of bed at dawn to go on some mission," Cassandra says. "I like the ones where you complain about Leliana's perfection the most. And the one about... maps. The composition of maps. Is that clear enough? Sometimes, I think I can still smell your perfume on them, which is absurd, because I've taken them from the Western Approach to Skyhold and back again."

In response, Josephine bends down, and when Cassandra does not recoil--sits there, staring into her eyes like a fool--she kisses her.

It is swift. It is ungraceful, the sort of kiss you give someone when you expect to never do so again. Josephine's ringless hands come up the side of Cassandra's neck, roam to her upper back, into her hair.

Her eyes--still as clear as they were, that lazy morning--are wide and hopeful. It is easy to forget that underneath all her cunning, she can be so _earnest_. She wishes the best for everyone and everything she cares about, and she cares about a great deal in this world, and this is where her power comes from.

"Oh, Maker," Cassandra says, once they part, running a hand over her face. "Lady Josephine, you must understand--"

"I know this is foolishness, Seeker. I can kill the rumor of our _affaire de coeur_ , as soon as you say. It was a convenient fiction," Josephine says. She backs off a half-step, wiping her mouth hurriedly, and continues, "I know you might go out with the Inquisitor and never return. Your station is well above mine, for all that you'd like us all to forget that you're a princess, and I should very much like us all to forget that my family is of--of somewhat fallen fortune. And it is too soon, after the death of your lover. I'm sorry--Leliana told me of him."

All Cassandra had meant to say was: _You must understand, I am not accustomed to_ \--accustomed to what? A beautiful figure, smothered every day under a half-dozen layers of clothing, gloriously revealed by a tight pair of trousers and a well-fitted jacket? The thought that she might become entangled with someone, and not need to keep their affair discreet--that she might be able to marry that person?Too much, too soon.

She reaches up to slide the top button of Josephine's nightgown open. She runs a finger over the lace at the collar, and she can feel the heartbeat racing in Josephine's neck.

"I am never foolish," Cassandra says.

"No?"

"I have always been full of righteous purpose."

"Yes," Josephine murmurs. "You are--adamant. Resolute."

"Never mind our families. Never mind our fortunes." Never mind the dead. They have no place in this room.

"We can't ignore them forever. You might have at least tried to dance with me tonight."

"You should know," Cassandra says, standing to take Josephine's hand in one of hers, to hold her waist, "that I have always been a terrible dancer. I cannot be taught. Even Leliana tried. I would have embarrassed you to no end."

Josephine hastens to correct Cassandra's grip, and settles both of her hands on Cassandra's shoulders. She is not listening _._ "Of course, it would be an advantageous connection for my family--but I would not want anyone to think--"

" _Josie,_ " Cassandra says. "Please."

It works, to snap her out of her reverie. Cassandra will have to thank whoever discovered the trick. "Dancing," Josephine says, "was not the point of this evening, in any event. The point was to put a friendly face to the tales of the Inquisition, and I am the friendliest face in all of Thedas, at the moment."

 _The most beautiful, certainly_ , is at the tip of Cassandra's tongue, and then Josephine takes up a hum, in triple-time, and Cassandra forgets her words. They are dancing. This is romantic.

And now she has to _court_ Josephine. She had never thought to be the one doing the courting.

"If you were to write to me of tonight," she asks, rather than think on this, "what would you say?"

Still humming, Josephine considers the question. Another expression to add to the catalogue, for when the world pulls them apart: the way Josephine bites at the inside of her cheek when she is thinking, the wrinkle in her nose. And the way, when she speaks, that her words all come out in a rush-

"'I attended a reception with Cassandra last night. She talked herself into a corner from which I could not think of a way to extricate her with Queen Anora, but I did not need to ride in on my white charger and save her, after all. It would be unbecoming of me to forget she navigated the politics of the Chantry for decades-longer, even, than Leliana-before we two met. This is why I am so fond of her: she cannot be knocked down. Neither of us will ever made the mistake of thinking the other in need of rescuing.'"

"Ah."

"I suppose I'll need to know what your favorite sort of flower is," Josephine goes on. If her hands were not on Cassandra's shoulders, they would be fluttering. "No. Flowers? Your favorite blacksmith. _Do_ you like Dagna's work? I know nothing of swords--"

"Lilac," Cassandra cuts in. "Though it stinks, when it's been sitting in the vase too long. Lavender--lilies. Maker knows I have enough weapons."

She waits until she feels the brush of Josephine's lips on her chin.

"You'll have to bend down if you want more," says Josephine. "Lavender, you say?"The glint in her eye means _overkill_. It means excess. Bushels and bushels, delivered to the armory. Cassandra bends to kiss her, to note, with no small pleasure, the way Josephine's foot comes off the ground in her excitement, and finds she did not mind the idea at all. 

"And look," Josephine says. "You're dancing."


End file.
